In This World
by A.Boleyn
Summary: DL. Lindsay is broken. A story in three parts.
1. Part I Run

**A/N:** This is Lindsay POV fic that is very personal for me, also a slight departure from my usual Fluff. Yeah, it's a little weird. However, I like writing and reading stories that are heavy with emotion. This is three parts, but it is all written, so I shall be uploading II and III immediately.  
**Disclaimer:** Using characters borrowed from CBS/AA/Bruckheimer/Zuiker etc. Pam Veasey for President. The ideas and dialogue are all that is mine.  
**Pairing: ** D/L. Of COURSE. My sole ship.  
**Genre:** Oh dear, I think this would qualify as... gulp ... _angst!_ scream of terror

* * *

**In This World**

**Part I – Run**

I'm alone in this world.

Where this bus is going doesn't matter much to me. Running away is all that matters.

Nearly two hours ago, I walked out of the lab and right onto a bus. It was pulled to the curb, calling to me with a siren song of escape. I boarded it in a daze; and when the engine shuddered to life a few minutes later, I was ready for anything. Mac had said, gruff but understanding, "Go home". I don't feel like home is anywhere in particular. So I just go.

I lean against the window, the glass cool from the rain that splatters against the opposite side. The hard, cold surface feels good against my throbbing temple. I don't know the destination, I don't have luggage, and I don't have a plan. All I have are the clothes I am wearing, and my purse. My seat mate is an old man who is browsing a magazine about big game hunting. Eventually he falls asleep, his head drooping dangerously close to my shoulder, an article about bighorn sheep spread on his lap. I wonder where he thinks he can find bighorns east of the Rockies.

I haven't been on a bus since I was a child. School field trips were always to the same place – Yellowstone National Park. The excitement wears off after the first few trips, especially when your family visits the park every summer, too. Back then, the bus rides were part of the fun – no seatbelts, ducking paper airplanes, and dreaming about where we would really like to go. For me, it was always the bright lights and bustling streets of New York City. Even when I was older, I knew I wanted to live in New York. After all, you could lose yourself in such a place, right? Without tragedy tagging along? Wrong.

I don't remember bus rides being so bumpy. Every slight inconsistency in the pavement is jolting. It's not enough, however, to wake the hunter next to me. We pass small town after small town, and no one gets off. Oh, people board, but no one is actually going to these sleepy little towns, with their single stoplight and mom-and-pop general stores.

The weather has gotten even bleaker, matching my mood. It's been nearly two hours now, and my back is aching from this rigid seat. The bus comes to a grinding halt once again, in yet another nameless town. Just across the street is a shabby looking motel with a parking lot full of tractor trailers. It's as good a place as any to get off. I squeeze past the drowsy old man with a forced smile of apology, pass the driver a wrinkly wad of bills, and climb down to the pavement.

Darkness hasn't quite settled; everything seems gray, thick, and murky, like oatmeal left sitting in the kitchen sink all day. I dash across the deserted road, dodging raindrops, thinking of how odd it is to check into a motel with no baggage whatsoever. I walk into the tiny office, where a bulldog of a man sits behind a desk cluttered with knick-knacks and greasy fast food wrappers. He doesn't look up when I walk in, so I just stand there awkwardly for a minute.

"How many?" he finally asks.

I blanche. _How many what_? As if reading my mind, he snaps, "How many nights?"

"Just one." I hope.

"Cash or credit?" he mumbles.

"Uhh… credit," I reply, sliding my Visa across the desk. He swipes it, has me sign the slip, then passes me a set of keys.

"Lucky lady," he deadpans. "You got the last room we have." He reaches over and flips a switch on the wall, causing the word "no" to flash up next to "vacancy" on the neon sign outside.

Lucky indeed. When I locate my room a few doors down from the office, I am greeted with a stark, cold bunker that is styled in a burnt orange color. I shiver as I shut the door, and instantly turn up the thermostat. A twin-sized bed sits against one wall, and a tiny bathroom is off to the right. The drapes are open, and as I move to shut them, I spot a familiar vehicle pulling into the parking lot. I can't quite place it - it's too hard to see through the now-steady stream of rain cascading down from the roof. So I shrug it off and sit on the bed, the mattress springs creaking underneath me.

I remove my jacket, and goose bumps form where the chilly air reaches my bare arms. I wish it were possible to unzip myself, and crawl out of my own skin. I don't know who I am, why I am feeling like this, what's going to happen to me. Over a thousand miles lies between Montana and New York, and despite my best efforts at denying it, the memories have hitchhiked a ride with me. A hot shower would be nice, though I regret having no clean clothes to change into. Had I gone back to my apartment, I fear, I wouldn't have maintained the courage to do this. And getting away is something I need to do.

The walls here are thin, and I can hear my neighbor's television. Judging from the gun fire, Indian whoops, and thundering of hooves, I'm guessing it's an old Western. Maybe the noise makes him feel less alone. I wonder what it's like to be a truck driver – isolated all day, nothing but yourself and a CB radio, all for minimal pay. I should be grateful, I scold myself, to have a good paying job where I am surrounded by good, caring people. _Incredible_ people, I think, then stop before my mind goes there, to the one place that will make me break. _Him_.

_Shower_, I remind myself, snapping out of the daydream. That will help me forget. I busy myself in the cramped bathroom, locating a towel and a bar of soap in a cabinet. Given the condition of the motel, and its usual occupants, I am pleasantly surprised by the cleanliness of the tub and sink. I start feeling a little better – after my shower, I'll flip on the television for some mindless distraction, and perhaps order a pizza, if there is such a place in this town.

I kick off my boots and unclip my hair, allowing it to tumble down into a tangled mess, when there's a knock at the door – forceful and incessant. Assuming someone has the wrong room, I ignore it and hope they'll go away. Yet the pounding continues, and only gets louder. I tiptoe out of the bathroom, tossing the towel onto the bed, then try to peek around the drapes. It's too dark to make anything out, other than a figure hunched against the weather. This is creepy… haven't I seen a horror movie like this?

"Who is it?" I call softly.

"Lindsay, open the damn door."

* * *


	2. Part II Caught

**Part II – Caught**

I unlatch the chain lock and swing open the door, where Danny stands looking wet, exhausted, and angry. I'm so numb that his presence fails to alarm or even surprise me. I stand aside and beckon for him to enter.

"What do you think you're doing here?" he asks, his voice still a little harsh, but his eyes have gone soft.

"I don't know," I reply honestly, beginning to pace.

"Why are you running away?"

I shrug, once again not sure of the answer. Instead, I question him: "How did you find me?"

He rubs the back of his neck. "I've been trailing you. I followed you out of the lab and saw you get on the bus. So I got in my car and followed you for almost two hours. To this… _place_." He waves his hand around the decrepit room in disgust. The vehicle I had seen pulling into the motel lot – it was Danny's. He wriggles out of his saturated jacket, which I take and hang on the doorknob to drain. He walks over and plops down on the bed.

"I'm not even going to ask if you're okay," Danny states, "because I know you're not. Look, whatever's going on, you don't have to do this by yourself."

I don't want to discuss this; instead, I try to distract him. "You're soaked," I say with a chuckle as I sit down next to him. Even his glasses are smeared from the deluge outside. I pull them off, and with the towel I had tossed on the bed, begin to softly rub away the moisture from his face. He closes his eyes as I dab gently around them, then work across his cheekbone and down to his chin. I repeat this action on the other side of his face, then the back of his head. The thick, soft cotton wicks away the droplets of rain. His eyes are still closed, and I touch his chin lightly in order to tilt his head in the appropriate angle. I feel myself flush slightly as I move down his neck, moving the shirt aside slightly and noticing the hairs springing up from his chest. Through the towel I can feel the warmth of his skin, the reaction to my touch. I wish things could be different.

"There," I say, handing him his glasses back.

"Thanks," he murmurs, clearing his throat. "So, you wanna talk?" 

Obviously I'm not fooling him with my casual facade. I shake my head stubbornly, resolving to remain stoic, but my eyes betray me – the stinging tells me that the tears are close. Something about Danny being here, wanting so much to help me, is causing me to lose my composure. His presence makes me feel happy and sad at the same time, but mostly dizzy. The room is spinning.

"I don't know why I'm feeling this way," I croak, my own voice sounding alien to me. "I feel like I'm falling down a hill, just rolling and rolling and trying to grab on to something but I can't." It's the first time I've voiced these fears out loud. "I think I'm going crazy."

"Lindsay," he says soothingly. "I know what it's like to be at the very bottom of a dark pit, with nothing but blackness surrounding you. I found my way out, that's why I want to help you."

"But how?" I ask him skeptically. "What made it better for you?"

Danny's gaze is so serious, now I can't pry my eyes away. He opens his mouth, stops a moment, then takes a deep breath before finally responding. "Finding you."

Well, there goes my composure. Danny, seeing me falter, scoots closer. I hold up my hand in warning. "If you come any closer, I'll lose it," I plead. He keeps coming anyway, sliding over and wrapping those strong arms around me. I try in vain to push him away, to wriggle out of the embrace I don't truly wish to leave, but it is futile - he isn't letting go. I press the back of my hand to my mouth, hard, as if to prevent the sobs from forming. Like a wave, the tears come suddenly, swallowing me up until I am drowning in grief. I cry against his shoulder, utterly helpless, victim of a pain I can't pinpoint.

"It's okay to lose it," Danny whispers against my hair, "but it kills me to see you hurting. Kills me." His arms only grow tighter. It's a most welcome suffocation.

"I don't know what's going on with me," I stutter.

"There's people out there who can help," he suggests, rubbing my back in long, slow strokes.

"I don't need a therapist," I grumble into his shoulder.

This causes Danny to chuckle. "That's my stubborn Montana," he muses, a hint of pride in his voice. Except for my sniffling, we remain quiet for awhile.

When my tears have ceased for the most part, Danny gathers up the towel lying nearby – the very one I had used to dry the rain from him – and cups my chin in his hand. Murmuring soft words of comfort, he begins patting the towel softly against my cheeks, soaking up the tears. Still damp, the cloth smells of rain, and of him.

It's my turn for thanks, but I don't know how to say it. Getting up off the bed, I wander over to the window and peer outside at the ugly conditions. A steady row of orange headlights are crawling through the fog. "You should go," I tell Danny, turning to look at him. "It's late and it's raining and you have a long drive back to the city."

He crosses his arms, then gets up to join me at the window. He is standing so close. I yearn to lean against him, but resist. "I'm not leaving you," he says firmly. "Not here. Not like this."

"Well, I'm not coming back with you," I retort, slightly exasperated.

"Then I'll stay here." He suggests it casually, as if it's no big deal.

I roll my eyes and plop back down on the edge of the bed. "But Danny," I argue, "there aren't any more rooms available – the clerk said I got the last one."

He nods. "Then I guess I'm sleeping here."

"It's a twin bed, and there's no couch." I point out, shivering as he approaches and sits next to me. He puts his hand on my arm. Is he suggesting what I think he is suggesting? Share a bed?

"Lindsay, we have something here, between us. And no matter how you try to push me away, I'm going to be here for you. Just let me comfort you – that's all." He swallows. "Let me hold you tonight."

I look at the tiny bed beneath me, and think of how ridiculous it seems. But I am also too tired to fight, aching to give in to the security I crave.

"Alright," I whisper hoarsely.

Danny appears relieved when I consent, then he suggests we get some rest. I retreat to the bathroom, where I brush my teeth and splash my face with water. I look awful: my eyes are puffy and red-rimmed. I'm wearing a camisole top that was under my blouse, and the same slacks I've had on all day. Well, this isn't about seduction anyway. I emerge from the bathroom to see Danny with his back turned to me. He undoes the last button on his shirt, then slips it off, revealing the tank top underneath. I chastise myself for the momentary rush of desire I feel.

I stand there dumbly as he slips into the bed, scooting over as far as possible – which isn't far. Lifting up the covers, he looks at me expectantly. "C'm'ere," he says softly. I pad over to the bed, then pause to turn off the bedside lamp before sliding in with him. Mentally and physically, I collapse.

The sheets are stiff and thin, the blanket is itchy wool. Regardless, the only sensation I'm aware of is his skin against mine. I feel him, totally and completely, even though it's too dark to see. We're both on our sides, facing each other. Danny pulls me against him so that my face meets his neck. He takes my hand and begins rubbing his thumb over mine. His other arm goes underneath my torso, supporting and cradling me. As our bodies blend, I wonder if it's possible to truly melt into someone. This should be awkward, after all; climbing into bed with a man I have deep feelings for. Yet Danny's warmth and scent feels so familiar to me, like a well-fingered security blanket I had lost and just found. We lie there, still except for the caressing of Danny's thumb against mine. Funny how such a solitary, innocent movement can ease my pain so much. I feel his scratchy chin hairs against my forehead as I nestle closer into his neck. Beyond the noises outside – an occasional car horn, loud voice, or motor – I focus on his breathing. It's steady and reassuring and calming, three traits which are severely lacking in my life right now. I cling to him because I have nothing else to hang on to. Even my own mind has betrayed me.

"I'm so afraid," I admit with a gulp. The tremor of my voice seems a rude contrast to the peaceful moment.

"Everything will be all right," Danny says quietly, without hesitation. It's strange how comforting those words can be when a person tells you that. They can't truly promise it, but I guess it's the knowing that someone else _believes _which soothes us.

"Close your eyes, Lindsay," Danny whispers, pulling the covers up and over our heads. I obey. "We're alone in this world. It's just you and me, together, no one else." This portrait he paints of a universe where only the two of us exist is breathtakingly bittersweet – a beautiful vision that leaves me saddened by its implausibility. Still, I try to visualize it: mountains, stars that never grow dim, porch lights that are always on, a log cabin with a big stone fireplace, soft flannel blankets, and a rolling stream.

The shelter, the solace, the slight pleasure of lying here in his arms is something I'd like to revel in for more than just a night. As I surrender to sleep, I pray that dawn never comes.


	3. Part III Escape

**Part III - Escape**

I don't know how much time has passed, but I'm awake once again. The moon has shifted, allowing some pale light into the room. Danny is cute when he's sleeping. Actually, he looks very serious, as if he is focusing on something. I wonder if he ever has nightmares, like the ones I have that leave you gasping for breath and cold as ice. I feel a surge of protectiveness as I watch him, and know that I would do anything to defend him from such feelings. I wonder if that's how he feels about me? His arms are still holding me tight. In my career, I have donned bulletproof vests, worked in buildings with the strictest security, and ridden in armored police vehicles. And never have I felt as safe as I do here in Danny's embrace.

I watch him awhile longer, until I begin growing bored. "Danny," I hiss. He grunts sleepily before opening his eyes, then shifts to look at me.

"What's the matter?" he sounds worried.

I shrug. "Nothing. Just talk to me. About something."

"About what?"

"Anything." I want to talk about stupidly insignificant, mundane things to occupy my mind.

"Okayyyyy." His voice is low and gravelly from sleep. Then we talk. We talk about Christmas mornings growing up, the first time we tasted alcohol, and the outrageous price of New York apartments. We talk about everything except my current situation, about why the hell we are snuggled up, fully clothed, on a tiny uncomfortable bed in a run down motel off the interstate. Every word that comes from his mouth is like a mini-escape, a distraction.

A drowsy fog lowers over my brain, threatening to steal me back to a state of slumber. Before I drift off, I murmur one question for Danny. "Why?" I ask, waiting for him to reply _"Why, what?"._ But he doesn't – he sees through to the heart of my question.

"You know why," he whispers. "You know."

▪▫▪▫▪▫

Dawn is harsh: I prefer sunset, when the world is retiring from the day, and all secrets and fears scurry off. Now, as I open my eyes, I see a peachy haze is regrettably smearing the charcoal sky.

"Morning," I hear. Danny must have been awake for awhile now, watching over me. Like he promised he would.

"Morning," I reply, shifting to look at him, It occurs to me that I should thank him; offer up my appreciation. But where to begin? How can two little words be worthy of such devotion?

He strokes the side of my face, a touch so light but it creates a burning in me nonetheless. "We should get up, get going," he says quietly, almost sadly.

"Please don't make me go back," I whimper. The stifling sense of fear returns, threatening to choke me.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, laughing softly. "I can't make you do anything, Montana."

I smile shyly, still drowsy from a lack of sleep, and gaze into his eyes. As I study the intense blue, their slight sparkle, our faces begin moving closer together. I know what is happening, and I am powerless to stop it. It is the perfect moment. Then our lips make contact, and I feel as though I am stuck in a surrealist painting. My breath is gone, my heart has stopped. The earth has ceased its rotation and everything around me has dissolved into oblivion. His hand slips under my shirt, brushing my stomach with the tips of his fingers. The motor of an eighteen wheeler outside reminds me that this is not the right place.

"I want this," I murmur, moving away slightly. "But not here."

Muttering an awkward apology, Danny abruptly slides out of bed and disappears into the bathroom. I groan and cover my face with my hands. _That's not what I meant_.

When Danny reemerges from the bathroom, he comes back over and sits in the edge of the bed, then clears his throat. "I should get back to the city," he offers softly, staring intently at his hands which are folded in his lap.

I grab his arm. "No, please," I beg. "One more day, I swear." I am not finished being alone with him.

He bites his lip and sighs, retrieving the cell phone from his pocket. The minutes tick by as he debates with himself. "Alright, let me make a phone call."

Mac, I'm sure he means. I don't want to think of it – of the job and consequences I have left behind. While Danny steps out on the porch, I lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling. I hear his voice, muffled, and he returns in a few minutes.

"Well," he says, grabbing his keys from the table, "where to?"

▪▫▪▫▪▫

We just drive. I have no idea if we're going north or south, east or west. Danny and I are trusting the road to lead us where we need to be. A tortured heart has no sense of direction.

Danny's fingers drum the steering wheel, and I listen to the news on the radio; news which seems so foreign and inconsequential because I have not yet chosen to accept that Danny and I are not, in fact, the only people on earth.

When I spot the rustic, cozy inn from the road, I know it's the perfect place. It's far enough off the highway to seem secluded, surrounded by pine trees.

"Here," I say, pointing to the driveway. "Stop here."

"You sure?" He flicks on the turn signal, and slows as we approach the driveway. No turning back.

"So sure."

▪▫▪▫▪▫

The woman behind the desk here is a nice contrast from the creepy hotel clerk. I feel a bit sheepish, given the picture we must present: two young, single people, with no baggage, for just one night. If only she knew that deep down, we are not as transparent as we appear. Once again I hand over my Visa card, unable to think about the bill I will have. Today, it doesn't matter. What matters is the man standing next to me.

I'm pleased when I unlock the door to our room - it is also quite the trade up from the motel. Everything is decorated in alternating shades of deep ruby and shimmery gold, from the bedspread to the curtains. I slip out of my shoes, my toes digging into the squishy buttermilk carpet beneath my feet. Holding Danny's hand, I walk with him past the bed to the balcony, which looks out over the eastern sky.

"It will make for a pretty sunrise," Danny remarks. I start to tell him how I hate dawn, but then stop. Maybe this next one will be different.

The adjoining bathroom is gorgeous – roomy, shiny ivory tile with maroon accents, and a tub large enough to bathe a horse.

"I could use a nice soak," I murmur dreamily, mindful of my aching muscles and weary mind.

"A hot shower would be great, but I don't have any clean clothes to change into," grumbles Danny.

Biting my tongue, I rifle through the linen closet until I find what I am looking for.

"Bathrobes!" I announce triumphantly, tossing him one of the terrycloth wraps. "Let's put these on!" The entire situation strikes me as hilarious. It feels strange to laugh: in the darkest moments the smallest things can bring light. Sometimes we just need a little help finding them.

I change in the bathroom, Danny changes in the bedroom. When I come out, we both stand there awkwardly, nothing but robes on. Danny coughs. "You uh, you go first," he says. "I'll just… wait out here." He gestures nervously towards the bathroom… a _cute_ nervousness.

I smile to myself as I slip back into the bathroom, where I turn on the tap and empty almost half a bottle of bath foam into the tub. As the mountains of white bubbles grow and multiply, a sweet scent of vanilla hangs in the air. I turn off the lights and light two taper candles I find under the sink. _Perfect._

Tiptoeing back out in the parlor, I sneak up behind the Danny and whisper in his ear: "Come in the bath with me."

He jumps, startled, and looks at me cautiously. I see hesitation, yet also a fire growing in his eyes. I pull him into the bathroom, tugging him inch by inch across the carpet. Once inside, I shut the door and untie the sash from his robe, letting it fall to the floor. Even with just candlelight, his body is beautiful.

"Your turn," I say. He unties the knot around my waist, then brings his hands to my shoulders where he lifts the robe, allowing it to slip off.

"You," he murmurs, "are breathtaking." His fingers trace my upper body, from the hard edges of my collar bones to the soft curves below. When he touches me, I can't breathe.

As we lower ourselves into the tub, the hot water instantly blankets me with a sense of relaxation. I recline against him, listening to the lapping of the water around our bodies. I feel his muscular thighs beneath me, supporting my weight. Turning my body to face him, I take a cloth and begin rubbing it over his body. We take turns washing each other, cleansing away the pain and angst and heartbreak we have experienced in our lives. We wipe it all away until there is nothing left but ourselves, fresh and raw. We lie back again, not talking or thinking, just being together, until the water goes cold. When it does, I turn to him and press my lips to his for a second, and only a second.

"Now," I say quietly, needing him to understand. I am wounded, he is the poultice.

"Okay." His response is husky.

Standing up, I reach for a towel and quickly swipe our bodies with it. We are still dripping as we step out of the tub and Danny lifts me up in his arms. Easily, I lock my hands behind his neck, and he carries me to bed. We tumble down onto the covers, knowing that where we are about to go is a place from which we can't return. Ever. And I want to go there.

Danny's skin is damp and sweet from the bath. As I explore him with my lips and my hands, it's as if the closer I am to him, the farther away my problems are.

"Lindsay," Danny says, his breath against my ear igniting my craving for him even more. "Are we really ready for this?"

It occurs to me that while nothing has truly changed in the past day, my outlook has. When something breaks, perhaps it isn't always a bad thing. It's a step towards becoming fixed. I am broken, but I will heal. I have struggled, but I will win. I am fighting a war, but I am not without support. I look at Danny and realize that the difference between one person and two is insurmountable.

"Shh." I grab the blankets, and pull them up and over our heads, surrounding us in darkness. "Close your eyes," I whisper, then use my hands to paint a portrait only he can see. "We're alone in this world..."

* * *

_fin._


End file.
